


secrets/revelations

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8772022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: Bokuto wasn't the type to run away, but Akaashi was probably the type to follow. / Akaashi thought he would have to kill Bokuto one day.





	

The soothing announcement said the doors would be opening on the right side. Akaashi stood up, fingers hooked beneath his backpack strap. The glinting roofs and electrical wires faded into a train station platform, replaced by posters and a crowd of uniforms. A department store rose above the station’s overhang. The train rocked to a halt. 

The passengers on the right began to file out. He began to follow, but he felt a tug on his sleeve. 

Bokuto was holding onto his uniform sleeve between his forefinger and thumb. He was smiling distantly in the tinge of the train, bag settled on his lap. 

“The doors are now closing,” the speakers announced. “Please stay behind the white line.”

Akaashi sat down. The train lurched forward again in a scrape of metal. He had missed his stop. Bokuto looked out the window.

* * *

  
(All mornings were cold mornings now. The sky blanched into gunmetal gray. Crumbling gray soot covered the windows. Akaashi tucked his hands underneath his armpits. His arm throbbed. He might lose a finger to the cold. No more volleyball. No more setting. He stared at the walls of the room. It had been painted a gentle yellow for someone. They’d tracked their boot prints and dirt onto the white carpet. Didn’t matter anymore. 

Bokuto pressed against his side, almost painfully warm. His breath eased out in rattles. He turned his head and coughed once, a ripped-up wheeze from flayed lungs. In his sleep, he looked younger. Almost like the way they were before. Akaashi had some Tylenol in his backpack. Nothing for colds. They should pack. Move while the sun still shone. Bokuto coughed again. 

Akaashi closed his eyes.)

* * *

  
[It’s called the secret game.] read Bokuto’s text. The rush hour of the train wedged them into a corner. Other than the occasional sniffle and flip of a paper, the train remained silent. Tokyo flew past them through the curved windows. The high-rise apartments, the low houses, the steel towers, the dark shadows of trees and the sunset reflecting into the ravines. He could see parking lots and stores, but they flickered like flashes of light and they were gone again. 

[We tell each other secrets.] Bokuto had his hand loosely wrapped around hanging strap. His fingers fumbled across his screen. His eyebrows knitted in thought. 

[I’ll start, okay?]

The passengers may have been quiet, but the train still muffled his ears. He was cocooned in strange warmth. The posters above had a woman patting her face and smiling. Bold red and green posters alternated on the perimeter. The houses pulled away into strange, elusive triangles shapes.

Akaashi’s phone buzzed with a new text. Bokuto shoved his phone into his pocket and stared at the wispy clouds.

* * *

  
(No electricity, no lights. No lights, shorter days. Shorter days, longer nights. Akaashi swept his hair from his forehead. Bokuto hummed. 

Don’t be so loud. You’ll attract the boars. 

You worry too much, Akaashi. 

Akaashi carried the knapsack and a bokken. Bokuto had a baseball bat. There must be other survivors, at least once, that was Akaashi’s theory. The glass of the vending machines were shattered, the convenience stores had their shampoo bottles dumped to the ground. But Akaashi didn’t expect the single fake flower on the cash register, like a fragile apology. It hurt more than he expected. 

They lived on ready-meals, just add water. Akaashi always had muscles, but they had been built by sport. Now they were lean and stringy, like ropes. The shattered panes of mirrors showed his gaunt face and hollowing cheeks. He didn’t recognize himself. He could still recognize Bokuto, even when wrapped in that thick stolen coat. Except Bokuto had a shiny look to his eyes, a flushed rose to his cheeks. Sick, getting sicker, withering under a common cold. 

Akaashi had decided. If Bokuto got too sick, then Akaashi would deliver the final blow. He’d kill him. Quick, a mercy kill. Bokuto wouldn’t even know. Then he’d kill himself. Better this way. If Akaashi died first, maybe from that cut on his arm, then Bokuto wouldn’t know what to do. He’d be in pain. Live until he died a painful and long death. He’d suffer. Bokuto was the sort to need other people to be happy. And there were no other people. Or maybe Akaashi was delirious from the instant noodles crammed into his mouth, the sticky taste nothing like fresh juicy fruits or homegrown crunchy vegetables. Maybe he was losing his mind to even contemplate killing his only friend. Sick, getting sicker. 

Bokuto hummed. Akaashi did not recognize the song.)

* * *

  
Some upbeat pop music bleated over the shop speakers. They had arrived at a busy underground station, where the brick structure had been painted white and the thick white pillars supported the low ceiling. The backlight to the posters, displaying pastries and handsome movie stars and dashing models wearing watches, flooded the crowded area in a dazzling light. Bokuto crowded against him on some spare plastic seating. They faced the electronic map and a bustling coffee shop where a small crowd had gathered in a line. 

“How much money do you have?” Bokuto asked, hands crossed over his stomach. 

“I have a train pass.” 

“Have enough for food?” Bokuto craned his head towards the lit-up menu, where neat rows of baked bread had been arranged. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“I guess not.” Bokuto sat back in his seat. Surprising, Akaashi thought. His voice never rose in pitch, but must have carried enough of a negative nuance that Bokuto could recognize as silent displeasure. Akaashi, in the meanwhile, checked his phone. Almost late enough for his parents to wonder, but not late enough for them to be concerned. Practicing again with Bokuto, they would think. True enough. 

In the busier station, more people pulled luggage behind them. They walked across the tiled floor, heads bent down and umbrellas tucked under their arms. The luggage rattled over the grout. In volleyball, Akaashi was always jumping and leaping. The passengers moved sluggishly, as if straining under their own weight. 

“Geez. Geez! I’m sick of sitting here!” Bokuto said, leaping to his feet. “I’m going somewhere new!” 

Akaashi slid on his backpack. The passing pedestrians must have chosen to pack all that was important to them. They would feel that weight when carrying the baggage onto the train. Better to pack sparsely, that was Akaashi’s thought. Toothbrush, toothpaste, towel, cell phone, cell phone charger, uniform, shoes. But Bokuto would pack a teddy bear and one shoe and five extras of the same t-shirt and Akaashi. All that was important to him.

“By the way, Akaashi,” Bokuto said solemnly. “I am hungry, so there.” He stuck out his tongue. Akaashi kept his face implacable.

* * *

  
(If you’re hungry, we should stop. 

Not yet, Bokuto said. Akaashi had never realized the size of Tokyo until he had measure the city by the length of his stride. They had passed an intact district, but now descended to a city of rubble. Spiraling rebar protruded from the chunks of concrete. The buildings had not fared better. Ragged banners, displaying faded animals with shiny eyes, flapped in the wind. Metal groaned above them. Remnants of hard asphalt and thick drywall barely clung onto the steel frames. Letterings from store signs, taller than Akaashi, had fallen to the ground. 

Bokuto scrambled over the rubble. He easily placed his hands on the hard chunks and leapt over them. The dust coated his jacket. Akaashi, with his aching arm, found small spaces between the concrete.

It’d be nice if you were a singer, Bokuto said. Then you could sing. 

I don’t know many songs. 

Yeah. Me neither. Between the two of us, we only know about volleyball, huh? Bokuto stopped by an empty storefront to wait for him. After Akaashi’s injury, he did that a lot. Just stand and wait. When Akaashi had been pinned under the wooden cabinet, he had thought, this was it, he was going to die, this was it. Then Bokuto had appeared. He had come looking for him, when the buildings burned and the children screamed and the locusts swarmed and the sick fell into graves, and Bokuto had only thought about him, and this meant something, but Akaashi felt too empty to think about what it meant. His mind was too busy thinking about things like fresh juice and sugary cakes and light bulbs and paper. Things he could not get back.

There were so many songs, Akaashi said.

What?

I haven’t listened to all the songs. Not even from my favorite bands. 

What’s your favorite band?

I don’t know. I guess I’ll never know. 

You’re too gloomy, Bokuto said. Cheer up, Akaashi. We’ll find someone, you’ll see. 

Akaashi hoped they would find someone. He hoped they would find an adult, too, or someone responsible enough that he no longer had to worry. Someone who would see two frightened children and take them to safety. But sometimes he didn’t want to meet anyone. They would be cruel, he told himself. They would have a haunted look in their eyes and gaze upon them and see only what they could take. Thieves, robbers, burglars. But maybe, he thought, they would know songs from his favorite bands.

Storm’s coming, Bokuto said. We should get inside. 

Where? 

Doesn’t matter. Somewhere with a lightning rod. Something like that. Bokuto grabbed his shoulder reassuringly. Akaashi’s arm throbbed, hot and itchy. The storm had begun on the horizon, close to a mountain range from beyond the broken buildings. Bokuto was leading them somewhere. He was always leading them. Like an adult, Akaashi thought. Like someone who would take care of him.)

* * *

  
“Have you ever had a purikura?” Bokuto had spotted a photo booth, covered in unflattering pink, along the west wall. They had wandered into a mall adjacent to the platform and Akaashi scraped together enough money to buy some coats. They stood out in their school uniforms amongst the going home crowd of business people. The large clock, hanging over the directional signs, ticked away. It was late. He supposed he had officially run away, though they wouldn’t notice until morning. Bokuto hadn’t said anything about his parents, either, but he had an unworried smile. Akaashi assumed they wouldn’t notice, either. Not that he knew for certain. 

“We should save our money,” Akaashi said.

“I want a picture!” 

“That’s not a good idea.” 

Bokuto ran to the booth. Akaashi huddled in his coat and followed. 

“Bokuto-san,” he said. “What would happen if you need to buy something in the future?”

“The future’s the future, Akaashi. You can’t control the future.” Bokuto twirled the stylus in his hand. “Hey, hey, hey. What does this word mean?”

Which was how Akaashi found himself crammed into a photo booth, Bokuto counting, “one, two, three” under his breath between the flashes of light. In the small space, Bokuto’s elbow crammed into his side, but he didn’t move away. Bokuto told him to make silly faces, scared faces, wonderful poses, but Akaashi kept his face still and neutral. Bokuto didn’t seem surprised when they saw the results on the editing screen, though, and Akaashi idly chose a floral frame for a set of pictures.

“I thought it’d be more amazing,” Bokuto groused. “Shirofuku said the walls were all glittery and rainbows were everywhere and it rained candy.” 

“She was definitely lying to you, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto had decorated most of the pictures with softened lights and shimmering hearts, but he kept the last frame mostly intact. It wasn’t anything astounding. Akaashi wasn’t smiling, but he had turned to look at Bokuto. Normal expression. Normal pose. Nothing exciting, but still untouched. Akaashi slipped browsed a row of tourist pamphlets. He picked out a brochure with some train maps inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bokuto glance furtively at him. Bokuto then folded his row of pictures until the last one fell on top, and shoved the picture into the clear frame of his wallet. Akaashi pretended not to see. 

“We should get on a train,” Bokuto said. 

“Which one?” Akaashi’s ears burned. He pressed his cool palm against the side of his head.

“I don’t know. Whichever.” The announcements rattled in the background. The train was now leaving the station.

* * *

  
(So you’re saying that even if I was the last guy on Earth, you wouldn’t date me. Bokuto placed one foot in front of the other, arms outstretched while he balanced on the curb. They had passed the mouth of the rubble and approached a land of vegetation. Nature had reclaimed the shopping malls and storefronts. Thriving green vines crawled along the sides and flat-edged leaves flourished over the unlit hanging street signs. They walked along a four-lane street, wide enough for potholes to be filled with shallow water from the storm. 

Akaashi’s arm hurt. He raised his sleeve. The scar had mostly healed, but left a puckered scar behind. The edges felt raw when he pressed his fingers along his forearm. A good hurt. The pain grounded him. 

We’re not the last people on Earth, Akaashi said. The world was quiet. Above, some winged creatures flew across the peerless blue sky. He squinted at the blurry forms. The screens that had once shown advertisements and short commercials were blank mirrors. Some had cracked. Others, fallen. 

Bokuto fell. 

Bokuto-san, he said, jogging to him. Bokuto dusted himself off, raising a hand. He coughed once, twice, dry and hard. His hands were dusty. 

But if I was the last guy on Earth, wouldn’t you date me? Bokuto asked. 

Akaashi grabbed his dirty sleeve and pulled him further down the street, where some water had gathered in an empty planter. He pushed Bokuto to squat down and took his hands. Not very carefully, he rubbed the dirt away from Bokuto’s calloused palms. No blood. That was good. Some weeds had sprouted between the cracks of the sidewalk. The grass would grow. Akaashi dug his fingers into the palm lines and scrubbed away days of caked soot. 

The premise of the question is faulty, Akaashi said. If we were the only people remaining, we would have more pressing problems. Food. Water. Doctors. 

Aw, come on, Akaashi. Bokuto grimaced when Akaashi brought up some water to scrub his face. Bokuto’s face felt too hot to the touch. Yesterday, when picking through the convenience store, Bokuto had also complained his head felt ‘airy’ and ‘light.’ Akaashi scowled and swiped his wet thumb across Bokuto’s cheek.

Please be more careful, Akaashi said. 

Then let’s play a game. 

I don’t want to play.

It’s called the secret game. 

There’s no such thing as secrets anymore. Akaashi scrubbed a dirt mark from Bokuto’s face. He turned his back for one second and Bokuto managed to play around in the dirt in the next. Bokuto grimaced under his touch. Akaashi favored his better arm. 

There’s always secrets.

No. Not with just the two of us. Akaashi sat back on his heels and curled his wet hands into his lap. What do I not know about you, Bokuto-san?

Lots of stuff. Bokuto frowned.

I know you hog the blankets. I know you snore. I know when you think I’m asleep, you’ll go outside the room and cry. But never beyond our room, Akaashi added. You don’t like to go too far away from me. 

Oh, Bokuto said.

And you almost failed your math class. 

That’s a secret, Akaashi!

But who would know? Akaashi clenched his wet hands together, fingers slippery. Who would care? There are no secrets anymore. There are no math classes anymore. It’s not a secret.

Well, I don’t know anything about you.

That’s not true. 

It’s true! You won’t tell me any of your secrets. Or about anything at all! 

You never asked. But Akaashi thought he was being too harsh. Bokuto tipped his head back to stare at the former shopping center. They knelt near a large intersection. Some cars had been driven into the sidewalks. They had long since rusted, unmovable structures now swallowed by bushes. A window of a sleek red car had been cracked open, allowing the tendrils to flow inside and cover the soft seating with foliage. Some flowers, too, though they were smaller than Akaashi’s fingertips. Akaashi didn’t recognize the species, but he supposed he could dig through the mall and find a bookstore. But then he would have to dig through empty bars, where the martini glasses had been shattered into knives, and department stores with rows of clothes tossed to the ground, creating a fabric river of melding muted browns and grays, and grocery stores where the fish had long since rotted and the fruit turned to mulch beneath plastic and the flies buzzed around the scales and the potatoes grew into a mass on aisle three. Akaashi would not know what to do with his hands at the sight.

I’m asking now, Bokuto said, sulking. 

All right. Akaashi wiped his hands on his jacket. All right. There are things about me you don’t know, but they’re not secrets, Bokuto-san. 

I don’t get it. 

From the start, you’ve always known everything important about me. Akaashi laid a hand on Bokuto’s hair. Bokuto screwed up his face, but allowed Akaashi the moment to stroke through his hair. In the distance, a bridge covered in leaves rose into the air. The towers and suspenders resembled leafy spikes on a metal dragon’s back. The beast that watched silently as Akaashi rested his hand, something ebbing away into dirt and fungi. 

Something moved in the next street. Heavy. Too heavy for a human.

Bear? Bokuto whispered. 

Run, Akaashi said. Run.

He didn’t think they could outrun a bear. No, he knew they couldn’t outrun a bear. But Bokuto jolted upward and started down the street. Akaashi rapidly followed, and they flew through the empty streets, where the clay and concrete were covered with a soft moss and the winged creatures chirped above them and they leapt, easily, over the odd umbrella or stray table tossed onto the street. His arm throbbed in dull pain, but he could forget that. Bokuto had his entire face curved into a grin, and his open jacket flung backwards like wings. Akaashi’s knapsack thumped against his back and he still held the bokken in his hand. He would use the bokken if necessary. He would do anything, if necessary, to keep himself and Bokuto alive. But he thought it was better to run, run like the old days, when they simply lapped around the gym and the sun simmered down upon them and their teammates followed at a measured pace behind while Bokuto laughed and leapt, knees bent. 

And it was better to run because he didn’t think he or Bokuto knew how to use their wooden weapons. They were volleyball players, after all.)

* * *

  
The trains would stop running soon, stranding them in a station. But Akaashi was grateful when they stumbled out at midnight into some city station, vaguely familiar names printed on the signboards. He neither liked nor disliked trains, but the pressure inside buzzed in his head and even the underground air felt fresh on his lungs. Some of the shops had boarded and closed. They walked aimlessly down the hallway, past the glittering diamonds behind metal bars. They found some seats on a higher floor. When the coffee shop was open, the seats must have been highly coveted. Now, they sat and stared out the window to the city below, the reflection of their bags scattered across the white tiled floor.

“Your parents,” Bokuto said suddenly.

“They work late.” Akaashi pried his fingers off his stomach, and clenched them into his new jacket again. It had a strange smell, too fresh from the hanger. “Will your parents…”

“Don’t worry,” Bokuto said. “I’m an adult now.”

“Technically.”

“Don’t technically me, Akaashi.” But Bokuto stopped wrinkling his nose and relaxed into his seat. In the empty hallway, he stretched out his legs. Akaashi sat with his legs loosely together. Below them, shoppers and train-goers alike strode through the big center. A cardboard cut-out of a movie scene featured prominently on the left. A smiling actor striking a silly pose. Outside, the big electronic billboards displayed the same smiling actor. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said. He slid his thumb down his pointer finger. The advertisements all seemed strangely familiar now. He had read each line several times. Soap, shampoo, stores. A single bold stripe could strike in him an instant recognition, a close friendship.

“Yeah?” Bokuto inclined his head in the silence. 

“Is everything…” The lights shone onto the floor. “How do you feel?” 

“Hungry. But everything’s closed.” Bokuto leaned forward on his knees. His shoulders hunched over while he stared down the hallway of unlit stores. 

“I see,” and that was the coward’s way out, and Akaashi wasn’t a coward. “But other than that. How are things.” He kept his tone indifferent and vague, like he didn’t care. 

“Don’t worry,” Bokuto said again. Bokuto was technically an adult, and Akaashi was technically a child, so he only knew a child’s things. He still wanted an adult to take care of this problem, but only he was sitting beside Bokuto, in a station far away from their usual stop.

“I’m not worried,” Akaashi said. “But you can tell me. About things you feel. Things that are happening to you.” The city sparkled with neons and the smiling actors on the screen faded with pixilation. The night provided a deep backdrop to the towers beyond, the small squares of lights lit sporadically in vague patterns, only enough to give shape to the buildings. Each light was a window, and each window was a person. They sparkled beyond the window in numbers only countable by the fistfuls. 

“That’s a rare offer from you, Akaashi,” Bokuto said. 

“It’s my offer. Sometimes things happen, but they aren’t your fault. You don’t deserve it, and you’re not to blame. Things can be better.” Akaashi twisted his fingers. “You can tell me like you’re playing the secret game.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s your turn, isn’t it?” Bokuto grinned. “Your turn at the secret game?” 

“Yes.” 

“I get to hear Akaashi’s secret,” Bokuto said, clapping his hands. The sound resounded sharply along the walls. Akaashi glanced at the center, where people milled and walked to their stations. None looked at them. They staggered, some drunk, with practiced steps to the trains. A train station attendant walked across the lobby, crisp blue uniform and straight-brimmed hat. Akaashi had seen the pushers earlier with their white gloves, neatly trying to press together the spilling crowd.

“What sort of secret do you want to hear?”

“I want to hear Akaashi’s weakness!”

“I’d like to increase my physical strength,” Akaashi said, a little sadly. Instead of the usual gloating, Bokuto frowned.

“I already knew that,” he said.

“I lock the club room after our practices.”

“I didn’t know that,” Bokuto said, “but that’s not a secret, either. That sounds like something you wanted to tell me, anyway. A secret is a secret! It’s gotta be a good secret, Akaashi, or I’ll complain.”

“You’re not complaining now?”

“Tell me,” Bokuto said. “Who do you like?”

“Maybe I don’t like anyone.”

“You can say that, too. It’ll still be a good secret.” 

Even those who were drunk and already drowsing must be going home. The big clock ticked away and even if they started now, they wouldn’t arrive at their proper station. In the morning, his parents would notice. He could easily sketch out the worst-case scenario, but somehow, after the first train away from their regular station, the fear had ebbed into a gentle static worry. It was like counting the stars, or the lights in the buildings. He would count the first few on his hand, but somewhere between flipping down his fingers and raising them again, he was simply recreating the sky and the city in the palms of his hands. 

Bokuto charged headfirst into the unknown, but Akaashi usually had a map. His little brochure, taken several stations ago, felt useless in his backpack. Compared to the red and green and purple lines, the quiet threat of an unfamiliar store shook him. He had never been in this station or seen these people. With each new building flying past the train window, Akaashi swallowed a heavy stone until only a cascade of immovable stones rested in his stomach.

“Let’s catch the next train,” Bokuto said. Akaashi followed in his footsteps. The attendant, sitting at his booth, did not spare them a glance. Bokuto lingered outside the lit-up sign of the train maps, identical to the smaller version on the brochure. The white dots represented stations. Bokuto pressed his hard fingers against the lines.

“We can try to go back,” Akaashi said. “If we arrive at a closer station, we might make it home by the morning train.”

“Or?” 

“Or we keep going.” 

“So what do you want?” Bokuto skimmed along the colorful tracks. “If you want to go home, we’ll go back.”

“I want,” Akaashi said, “for you to know my secret.”

They purchased the ticket and pushed past the turnstiles. The stragglers of the night waited behind the painted lines, hands stuffed into coats and gazing at the walls. The drunken, the miscreants, the unfortunate. Akaashi unfolded the brochure and sketched out the map with his eyes. He had never seen anything other than volleyball-inflicted bruises. He had no real reason to question the current reality of his school life. Standing at the platform, Bokuto even held himself straight and bold. But for all his boisterous nature, Akaashi sometimes wondered about the weakness of his smiles.

* * *

  
(Akaashi had nightmares. 

They had taken a long loop to the outskirts of the city, closer to the wooden houses and Torii gates and Jizo statues. The moss grew on the eaves of the houses and the undulating roots of trees broke apart the stone steps. Nobody remaining. No JDF. No survivors, no bodies, no people. On the wooden floor, wrapped in thin blankets, Akaashi had a nightmare. Awful dreams. Those that left him empty and wheezing, terrified, like he needed to fight off the blankets and crawl into his parents’ bed, just to feel the reality of their bodies. Bokuto would shake him awake at night and hug him. He couldn’t always remember the dreams, but he remembered Bokuto kissing him. Soft, clumsy, a reassurance. Bokuto would pet his hair and kneel over him. He’d stopped after he got sick, but sometimes when they curled together at night, Akaashi would shove his way through the thickets of blankets and kiss him. Hard, focused, a reassurance. 

They passed by debris. A fossilized television sunk into the forest. Bottles and cans rolled across the roads. A soggy doll would fly past the window or books with wrinkled pages scattered across the young fields. Akaashi had taken up a medical book. The cut on his arm probably wasn’t infected, he deduced. But he had still had lost mobility in his arm. He couldn’t touch the ear on the other side of his face. He could wrap his hand around the bokken, but couldn’t muster the power to clench his fist in rage. Bokuto had taken up the dexterous tasks. Sitting beside the fire, Bokuto would peel off the wrappers and unroll the blankets. Before he got sick, he’d sometimes take to kissing Akaashi’s scar, too. He must have felt responsible, like if he had gotten there early enough to lift the cabinet, then Akaashi would have been untouched. But the sight of Bokuto above him, eyes wild with the same furious glow like Akaashi had seen across the court, was not a nightmare. Akaashi had bundled that memory into his heart and only dared to hold it when he felt low and scared. 

The medical book said something about strains of cold. Deadly. Boiling the brain. Akaashi had placed the book down in an empty store, and rejoined Bokuto waiting on the street.

They found an inflatable raft in a store. While Bokuto wandered off to inflate the yellow menace, Akaashi stared at a row of upturned tables across the street. A long ago, he had been approached by shady psychic sitting behind a table. Walking to school, he had heard a quiet hiss. Something big in your future. But guesses like that were barely prophecies. The catastrophe of the world was certainly big, but his graduation would have been big, too. Even if someone told him that something good was going to happen, he would already know that. He would be woken up from his nightmares by Bokuto’s warmth. At night, in a strange house, he’d receive desperate kisses to the soft parts of his mouth.)

* * *

  
The lull of the train brought him to the brink of sleep. The train dove through orange-lit tunnels and emerge onto city tracks, like releasing a held breath. But he had gotten used to the hard plastic of the seats and the gentle shakes of the plastic handholds. In a quiet corner of the train, he drifted to sleep. When he woke again, a few seconds later, his head had fallen to Bokuto’s shoulder. He thought vaguely he should move and apologize. He was a sound sleeper. He never dreamed, and he could sleep anywhere. He should move to another seat, at least. 

But Bokuto hadn’t moved. From his angle, Akaashi could only see Bokuto’s hands. They were curled across the bag in his lap. The train shook. It rattled over the rails, soothing and even. Bokuto had too much muscle to be a comfortable pillow, but he was warm and smelled familiar. Akaashi closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

  
(The streets had been submerged. The raft drifted over the new rivers. Bokuto paddled. Akaashi’s arm ached from too much movement. Schools of fishes swam beneath them. Next to a Burger King sign, they splashed in small ripples of water. The silver of their fins glinted in the sun. Some debris bobbed on the sides of the buildings. Trash bags and hair curlers and mannequin busts. Bokuto dipped the paddle into the still river, and the water pulled like fabric. 

Akaashi dipped his fingers across the surface. In the country, past the rotten fields, the land must still be untouched. Nothing would change in the mountains and the ocean and the thickets of trees. But here, the placards of billboards had fallen letters and flaking rust. A dark green moss grew over a fish sign. The water had covered the first floors of buildings, submerging the bakeries and boutiques. When Akaashi leaned over the raft, he could see the underwater world of sidewalks and debris. Doors had drifted half-open. The top of a streetlamp protruded from the water’s edge. 

Beyond a KFC, the streets upturned into a shallow pond. The low roofs had merged together, bridged by upturned automobiles and wedged vans. Grass had grown over the tops. The raft floated by a loose cluster of deer, who stopped chewing and looked upward at them. Their ears flicked. Their fur had been matted down, but they had grown their thick winter coats. A deer with antlers sat further away, underneath a tree born from a roof turbine vent. He had stern bony antlers. His unblinking black eyes followed them. Their raft floated towards deeper waters once more. 

A salty smell wafted around them. A billboard, built onto a tenuous metal tower, looked down upon them. The paper had long since weathered into ragged strips. The faint picture of a smiling actor echoed like a ghost, the lettering blasted from the sun. 

Shh, Bokuto said. But they had not been talking. Still, Bokuto flung his arm behind him. Quiet. Quiet, now.

The ancient department stores loomed above them. Akaashi stayed still at the end of the raft. The flies buzzed around the glistening reeds. A deep shadow loomed beneath the water, separated from the shadows of the shopping malls. A comfortable sofa, he assumed, pushed to the surface by the currents. But Bokuto still had his hand outstretched to hold Akaashi back. Quiet. Quiet. The shadow grew like an inky puddle. Something beneath the water. Something big. Quiet. 

Something rose from the water suddenly. The raft rocked backwards. Bokuto grabbed Akaashi’s knee. Something wet and thick and glistening crested above the water and the waves crashed into the abandoned buildings. Too big to arise completely, the beast was arcing back into the water and behind Bokuto’s shoulder, Akaashi could see the long crest of barnacled gray epidermis. A flipper, larger than the electronic signs behind the beast. Longer and longer, the beast rose from the water and dipped back inside, and when the last tail finally smashed through the water tension, the raft had cascaded back into an alleyway. The shadow began to disappear. Bokuto still clutched onto Akaashi’s knee.

Akaashi, did you see?

I saw.

That was big!

Yes.

Bokuto coughed, and loosened his hand. Like a fulcrum, he pried the paddle between raft and rust-stained wall. They shoved off. Tendrils of green moss had grown from the waterline in the alley. 

They reached land before nightfall. The sun had begun to set. They abandoned the raft beside a soap store, which somehow had been spared from the waves. Akaashi thought they would stop at a mattress shop. He enjoyed sleeping on a bigger bed. He would sleep on the left side and Bokuto on the right, and they’d wake up crammed together in the middle, still huddling for warmth. But Bokuto strode forward. His eyes had a feverish glow. He panted under the weight of his backpack. Still, he was smiling. Akaashi followed him and thought, in theory, he could certainly kill him. In reality, his hands would tremble. He tightened his good fist around his wooden weapon and ducked his head. Ahead, a tree flared a daring red. The burning leaves fell flat in the yard. Each leaf had a jagged edge. Another tree, ahead, in a dazzling gold. Human planted trees. The sun simmered on the edge of a tattered building. Bokuto hopped over a broken pillar. 

Here, Bokuto said. We’re almost here. 

Where are we going?

We’re almost here.

Akaashi began to recognize the steps. He had never been here before, but he knew the familiar signage. The white chairs had broken away, but a bench remained. The posters had been preserved beneath the plastic cover. A short flight of stairs. Scraped painted lines. Bumpy tiles beneath his feet, a clear booth with beading water droplets covering the insides. A large broken clock, webs of wires, numbers descending down the flat platform. 

Bokuto sat on the bench. Akaashi slowly followed. He placed his hands in his lap.

Here, Bokuto said. 

Did you want to follow the tracks? Akaashi tilted his head to the broken track roads. Some horizontal metal bars had been broken away. Dark gravel still remained. 

No. Not really. 

Then why here?

I was hoping there would be a train, Bokuto said. It’d take us away. 

You thought there would be a train.

That’s what train stations do. They’re places with trains. And trains will take you to places. Better places. Bokuto rested his hands on his knees. Guess not, though. 

Bokuto-san.

I know. I know, Akaashi, it’s stupid.

I wasn’t going to say that. 

You should have. I know it’s stupid, Akaashi, but I still. I still think. If I hadn’t taken your hand that day. On that train. If I hadn’t been selfish. 

Then I would be dead.

But there’s nothing here! There’s nothing left for you. Akaashi, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This is a dead world. 

From across the station, Akaashi could see a nest on top of a clock. Two birds sat upon the nest. He could not see them clearly in the dark. The usual fluorescent lights had long since stopped. But even in the darkening sky, in the violet umber of the sunset, he could see flashes of dark gray. A flutter of wings, the sound of ruffling feathers. The crack of the wood beneath the talons. When he tilted his head back, he thought he could see arches of birds floating across the sky. He wrapped his hand around his bad arm. Bokuto had buried his face into his hands. He had seen Bokuto bandage his arm with fragility yet unknown to his rough hands. Heard the muffled cries outside his door. Felt the way his hand had curled on his knee. No secrets between them, not anymore.

I think there were seven billion.

What? Bokuto ran his smudged fingers through his hair.

Even if there were seven billion people in this world, I would date you. 

What? Bokuto’s eyes flew wide open. Me? Really?

Yes. Really.

And if there were none? No other people?

Yes. I’d date you.

You’re not just saying that? 

Cheer up, Bokuto-san. It’s not the end of the world. Akaashi cracked a small smile. Bokuto laughed. Even in the sunset, the flush on his face ran to his ears. He laughed until the rasping of his lungs caught up to him and he coughed into his hands. Akaashi slowly bent over him and pressed a damp kiss to his forehead. Bokuto coughed. With his injured arm, Akaashi swept back his hair. Cold. Getting colder. He wrapped his arm across Bokuto’s broad shoulders and held him tight. Bokuto breathed and laughed in giant swallows. The darkness descended in folds, but the birds fluttered in the rafters like a whisper. 

They sat and waited for the train.)

* * *

  
The last train left the station. Akaashi straightened the corners of his brochure. Across the railway tracks, he could see another emptying platform. Just a solid bench, a row of plastic seats, pillars and posters and signs. Akaashi looked above at the ticking clock. One in the morning. No trains left. 

“Ah!” Bokuto leapt to his feet. “I forgot to do my homework!”

“Why do you remember this now?” Akaashi rubbed his cheek. It still had lingering warmth from where he had pressed it against Bokuto’s shoulder. His fingers felt cool against his cheekbone.

“I guess it doesn’t matter.” But Bokuto seemed dissatisfied, staring at the opposite bench with a frown. “Hey, Akaashi. On a train, you pass other trains, right? Do you ever look in their windows?”

“Not generally.”

“I do, sometimes. But it feels weird. Because you’re moving, and it’s moving, and then you see into a whole other train. And you gotta wonder if this train’s following that one, or that train’s following this one. It’s all really confusing.” 

“Maybe they’ll never intersect.” 

Bokuto blinked at him. Akaashi rubbed the sleep from his eyes, voice still groggy. He could see the whisking train, a stern blur across opposite tracks, the brief glimpse of windowed light. 

“Parallel lines,” Akaashi said. “It was in your math class. If they’re on parallel tracks, they’ll never intersect.”

“That’s sad, Akaashi! That’s too sad!” Bokuto grabbed him by the arm. Akaashi yawned. 

“Is it,” he said distantly. “But you still get to see into their train for a second, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Then it means something.” Akaashi rubbed his eyes.

Bokuto loosened his grip, but he kept his hand on Akaashi’s wrist. Akaashi straightened his back. Bokuto seemed to be looking at the opposite platform, though nobody was there. Eventually, Bokuto started for the stairs. The train station broke away into the busy city, bustling in the depths of night. People in warm winter coats walked past and laughed, hands prettily draped across each other’s elbows. The lanterns boasted garlands of decorations from the city. Underneath blaring neon lights, people with short sleeves offered flyers and leaflets. The signs blinked and flashed, bright colors and arrows and opening circles, and the crowds pulsed across the walkways. Cars rolled down the street, headlights illuminating the yellow railing. An indistinct chatter arose, accompanied by electronic voices from the blinking advertising screen. Each store had a brilliant glow, red and blue and yellow, some blaring out techno music. People sat and walked and biked.

Bokuto pulled him onto the street. They walked into the night. Bokuto did not drop his hand. Akaashi walked and felt his warm phone bump against his leg, still tucked away inside his jacket pocket. The last message from Bokuto still remained beneath the sleeping screen. 

[I’ll only ever need you, Akaashi.]


End file.
